Maybe
by vargrimar
Summary: Guzma wakes from a nightmare. Plumeria looks after him for a while.


Guzma jolts awake in a swath of sweat to find Plumeria squeezing his hand.

It's dark, but he can still discern the familiar shape of her face swimming amongst the stilled shadows. Her hair has been let down, waterfalling over her shoulders in whorls of pink and yellow to frame high cheekbones. She sits beside him over the blankets, her brow crinkled in pointed concern, and for a moment in the last gasps of the steeping haze that was his nightmare, she looks like someone he'd rather not see.

"Hey." Her voice is soft, mellow, considerate, and nothing at all like Lusamine's. "You okay?"

His heartbeat hammers in the film of his eardrums. He can feel it in his throat as he forces down a swallow and tries to pull in a shaky breath. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. I think."

"You're drenched," she says, tapping at the back of his palm.

Slowly, he curls himself up into a sit. His back and neck are slick, and the sheets beneath him are just as damp. It occurs to him that he should probably find where his shirt went because he doesn't remember taking it off. At least his pants are still present. "This isn't the usual for me."

"Does that mean you usually remember to take your makeup off before passing out?" A finger pats just above his eye, followed shortly by the sound of rubbing the pads of two together: powder. "That's supposed to be hell on your skin, you know."

Guzma works his jaws and tries to urge himself awake. Half of him is still stuck in the shifting mire of his dream, trapped with strange plants and iridescent creatures and with numbing neurotoxin pumping deep through his bloodstream and a translucent film stretched over his mouth. All of it sticks to the underside of his skull like coagulated tar, and no matter how he tries to claw it out, it only suctions closer and spreads across greater ground.

"C'mon." She gives his hand a gentle tug. "Let's go get you cleaned up. Give the sheets a chance to dry. Maybe we can find another set or something."

Plumeria lifts herself off the bed and coaxes him to do the same with another encouraging tug. Guzma doesn't protest. Sliding off the mattress, he stumbles forward past the looming figure of his throne with sleep clinging to his legs and follows her patient lead. The carpet feels nice under the soles of his bare feet, a pleasing sort of anchor to keep him entrenched in reality, and even though a deep sense of dread clenches down the length of his spine, the constant pressure of her hand keeps it at bay.

The rest of the mansion is silent in slumber. Aside from the two grunts posted at his door, he assumes everyone must either be in the rooms downstairs or out sleeping in the shacks in the rest of town. One of the boys nods his head at Plumeria as she passes, and Guzma tries his best to avoid their inquiring stare.

Ahead, pale light from scattered lamps projects jagged shadows across the walls from stacked boxes and assorted clutter. The yellow pall makes the final clutches of his nightmare scatter into the sanctuary of dark and sequestered corners. Guzma passes pieces of dilapidated furniture, piles of forgotten belongings, and dusty knickknacks. Colored stripes of graffiti splay over portraits and paintings, and it wedges a strange sense of shame under his skin. Before, he'd taken pride in how Team Skull had carved a place of their own in Po Town and made it theirs. Now, somehow, it seems like it had been such a childish thing to do.

The washroom is just as cluttered as the hall. The wide counter is home to countless bottles of hair product, facial cleansers, and pink and blue colored dyes, but at least the floor is clean. Plumeria ushers him in front of the long mirror and gives him a once over before sidestepping to one of the nearby towel racks and grabbing a clean-looking washcloth. Guzma stands awkwardly as she lets the faucet run on hot for twenty seconds, keeping his eyes focused on the floor, the counter, the impressive number of bottles, the occasional eyeliner pencil—anywhere but the mirror.

Once she has wet the cloth under the water and squeezed out the excess, Plumeria turns back to him. Her own makeup has long since been washed away for the night, although it looks like her yellow contacts are still in. Her face is soft despite the harsh light, and he follows the lines of her jaws, cheekbones, her dainty nose, and he swears his heart skips twice too many.

"Mind making this easy on me?" she asks, motioning down to her with two fingers.

"Maybe." Guzma does her a favor and bends down, just enough for her to reach. "You'd probably just find a box to stand on, anyway."

She makes a displeased face and starts to rub the warm cloth around his left eye. "Getting you on the floor would be easier."

"Yeah? And how do you plan on doing that?"

"Very carefully," she says, and flicks his nose with a polished nail for emphasis. "The taller they are, the harder they fall."

He's missed this. "You don't need to beat me down to get me on the floor, you know."

"I'm starting to think that's the only option I've got." Plumeria pauses and affords him a long, knowing look. "You were yelling in your sleep."

"I was?" Well, that's news. He certainly doesn't remember doing that.

"Not flat out yelling," she admits, "but the two outside your room heard you. They were worried."

Guzma squints under the blinding lights framing the mirror. The back of her head comes up by his shoulders, even with his stooped posture to let her tend to his face, and it makes her look much smaller than she really is. It doesn't help that she is swimming in her black nightshirt; it drapes down to her thighs, the short sleeves almost past her elbows, Team Skull's signature pattern stamped across the small of her back. Even in makeshift pajamas and tangled bedhead, she's still as flawless as always.

His gaze flicks back up to his chin, the hollows of his cheeks, the dark swaths beneath his eyes where the damp cloth has touched. Black roots have started to crop up through his tousled mop of white, just barely, and he supposes one of these days he ought to get the bleach again for another recolor. The fuzz from his undercut has grown a little long, and the rest of his hair is probably due for a trim. It wouldn't be so bad if he didn't look so damn _tired_. Exhaustion has sunken its fingers into his entirety, and he really wishes he didn't look like utter garbage.

"Worried, huh?" He forces a laugh, bobbing his shoulders in a shrug. "Guess I'll keep my trap shut next time."

"Don't be stupid." Her voice is firm, and it sounds suspiciously like the tone she uses to persuade the grunts into choosing less imprudent decisions.

"What? I'm being serious. Nobody needs to worry. Ain't nothing to worry about."

"Didn't you hear me? I said don't be stupid."

Suddenly, her exact proximity registers in the back of his mind, and it sends a wave of prickles down his arms. Her body is not quite flush, but she is close; heat seems to radiate from her as well as the cloth by his eye. She keeps a steady stare on her progress as she continues her work, and it twists a shard of discomfort inside of him. Screwing his eyes shut, Guzma pulls away from her hands, eyeshadow half smeared.

"Hey." She captures his chin with her fingers and coaxes him back. "I mean it, G. Don't be a bonehead. Where do you think you're going?"

He doesn't know. If he's honest, he feels like running. The lingering adrenaline in his bloodstream has yet to still, and if he slides off the roof and hits the ground running, maybe it'll finally stop so he can breathe again. Maybe the pouring rain outside might wake him up and bring him back to reality. The chills are gone and those creatures are another world away, but Lusamine's face still sticks to the darkness burning behind his eyelids and it still feels like she's got a knife between his ribs because everything won't stop hurting.

Guzma knots his fingers in his hair, his teeth clenched. "Look, you don't gotta baby me, all right? I got it. I'm fine. Go back to bed." He tries to slink away again, but her thumb and forefinger hold him like a vice. "What time is it, anyway? Like, what, two in the morning?"

"Three," she corrects, flicking his hand away from his scalp with two free fingers, "and if you think this is babying you, I'd like to know what everything else is."

"Ouch," Guzma deadpans. "Didn't think it was that bad."

Plumeria smiles. It's tired, worn, and yet oddly tender. "Trust me, cleaning your face up after a bad dream is nothing."

"So, what, you just normally get up when somebody has a bad dream?" He winces under the increased pressure beneath the cloth, but he enjoys the warmth. "You go and clean their face up, too?"

"No, I don't. I mean, I would if they asked me to. It's 'cause I care about them. And whether you like it or not, they all care about you, too. All of them. The ones by your door went and got me because they wanted to make sure you weren't dying."

"I wasn't dying," he says, but it sure felt like he was.

"Shut it. You know what I mean."

"If they cared so much, why send you? You aren't the one posted outside my door. Not like one of the guys couldn't check to see if I wasn't dying."

She releases his chin, tucks a lock of pink hair behind her ear, and gives him a pointed look. "Are you really gonna be like this?"

Guzma cracks a smile. "Maybe."

Plumeria sighs and continues to his other eye. "Well, maybe you oughta let me baby you for a little while. Maybe it'll do you some good."

"Plumes." He catches her wrist.

"What?"

"I don't need this. C'mon." He tries to guide her hand away from his face, but she holds firm, and he's far too hesitant to use more force, and so she remains in place. "Go back to bed. I'm serious. I got the rest. It'll be fine."

"No."

"No?" His voice comes out far harsher than he'd intended ( _she doesn't deserve that, man, c'mon_ ), and he regrets it.

"Yeah, you heard me." Strength steels her words. "I said no."

"I—" Guzma sucks a breath between his teeth. "Why're you being like this? Look, I'm not some kid, okay? I can wash my own stupid face."

"I'm being like this because everyone's worried. 'Cause you were gone for days, a whole week with nothing, no word, no commands, no letting us know you're okay, _nothing_ , and then you just show up out of nowhere looking like death." She lowers the cloth at his behest. A fierce intensity smoulders in the brightness of her eyes, and Guzma's knees feel weak. "I'm being like this because you won't be. I'm being like this because you're _stubborn_. So, no. I'm not going back to bed. Now shut up and let me wash your stupid face."

Guzma swallows. He loosens his grip, closes his eyes, and he allows her to continue with silent acquiescence. Her skin is warm, comforting against the inside of his palm, and a part of him craves closer contact, but he knows he doesn't deserve it. Hell, he doesn't even deserve _this_ , whatever this is, but he sits back and lets it happen because once she gets something in her mind she doesn't back down, and while under normal circumstances he'd be more than willing for a verbal spar, he just doesn't have it in him to put up a fight tonight. Besides, he must admit that her presence has a calming effect. He doesn't know if it's because he's known her for so long, or if it's because they endured the pains of building Team Skull together, or if it's because deep down he really cares for her a hell of a lot, but no matter what the reason is, her being with him like this is a much needed salve after everything that happened, and no matter how much he might protest it, he truly does enjoy her company.

After a trip or two to the faucet to re-warm the cloth and wash out streaks of purple, Plumeria finishes wiping away the rest of the eyeshadow and scrubs over the rest of his face. It feels good; she guides him with one hand against his cheek or jaw while the other methodically rubs away sweat and oil with an even, steady pressure. She gets behind his ears and under his chin and down his nose, and he's sure if she were so inclined, she'd scrub down his back and shoulders, too. He bites his lip at the thought. It doesn't help that images of her sitting in his lap and kissing lines up his neck have started to surface from the back of his mind, either. They shift from something chaste to her sucking on a sensitive place under his jaw and down to his adam's apple and then to her hands smoothing down his chest and wandering far, far lower. It becomes increasingly difficult to concentrate as she holds his chin and tilts him from side to side, and in hindsight he finds that his choice of loose-fitting sweatpants prior to bed had been a very wise decision.

"There." She stops and gives his cheek a gentle tap. "You look a lot better."

"Better? What are you talking about? I always look good." He opens his eyes, straightens his posture, and glances at himself in the mirror. Maybe it isn't obvious that he's lying through his teeth.

"You're welcome," she says, hewn with a sardonic edge.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Thanks, I guess." He pulls at the dark skin beneath his eyes. "I told you I coulda done it myself."

Plumeria discards the cloth on the counter by the sink and folds her arms. "I know you could've done it yourself. That isn't the point."

"Then what is the point?" he asks, scowling at his exhausted reflection.

"The point is I _care_ about you, you numbskull." Catching his gaze, she holds it with fierceness and swats at his belly for emphasis. "Everyone here cares about you. And whether you wanna see it or not, we all like looking out for you. When something's wrong, it's obvious. You haven't acted like yourself since you came back. I know you told me about what happened, but… it's still bugging you, isn't it?"

Guzma holds his face in his hands for a long moment before sliding them up by his temples and clenching his fingers through his hair, clutching at the dark roots. There is no use in lying, is there? She's known him for years. She knows what happened, what he's like, what kinds of things trip his sore spots. Hiding from her would be useless. She would find out eventually if he kept it from her, and what's the use in prolonging something that's just going to hurt that much worse?

"Yeah," he admits at last. "Yeah, okay, you got it. It still bugs me. And I don't know when it's gonna stop."

She cocks her head and eyes him with concern. "Why not?"

"It's 'cause I was _afraid_ , Plumes. I don't like being afraid. I don't." He combs his hands through shocks of white and tugs. "Just—imagine that, right? Big bad Guzma being stuck in that crazy ass upside down place and scared out of his mind. The Ultra Beasts or whatever the hell they are, I don't know, they just—they latch onto you, possess you, do whatever it is they do, and make you something else. They make you something you're not. Or maybe they make you what you really are. Maybe they just get rid of all your inhibitions and let you see the real you down underneath. And I _saw_ that. I did. That thing made me see it. I saw it, every last bit, and it _scared_ me."

A warm hand touches his face. "Whatever you saw wasn't you."

"I don't—" Guzma shakes his head and grits his teeth. "Damn it, how do you know it wasn't me? How do you know? You don't know what I saw. You weren't even there! It was just me and Madam Prez and her precious beasts, all stuck in that place with no way out and with her way off the deep end, and I saw—"

"—something that wasn't you," she interrupts.

"You don't _know_ that," he says, hunching forward. "You didn't _see_ it."

"No, I didn't," she says, "but I see you. I know what you look like. I know who you are and I know what's underneath. I don't need some dumb Ultra Beast to show me that. And I don't need whatever else is in Ultra Space, either. I just know that whatever you saw in that place, it definitely wasn't you. Think about it: would the person you saw agonize about something like this? Would they get all worked up and take the blame 'cause it bothers them so much?"

Guzma pauses, fists knotted tight. He lets the pain of strained roots steady him and reroute his thoughts. His eyes sting. "I don't know, Plumes. I don't know. Would my dad?"

Slowly, Plumeria raises her hands to his head and starts to untangle his fingers. She is firm yet gentle in her movements, and he lets her pry them away one by one. Once finished, she then slouches down from her tiptoes and guides his arms toward his sides again. She holds him by the wrists, her thumbs on his pulse, and gives a reassuring squeeze.

"It wasn't you," she says. "I know it wasn't. Your dad wouldn't lose sleep over something like this. And I know he'd sure as hell never apologize for what he did."

"And I would?" His voice is lower than it should be.

"Well, you have the chance. That's a start, isn't it? I think it is. Lillie and that kid gave you that chance, after all. They brought you back. They brought you home. Can't exactly make things right if you're gone." Another squeeze; softer this time. "You know that, right?"

Guzma glances back up at himself in the mirror. Dark marks curve beneath his eyes in sharp crescent moons and black roots peer out beneath stark white and a faint line of five o'clock shadow scratches at his chin. He looks terrible and he knows it. He's sure Plumeria knows it, too. This isn't the face of some goody-two-shoes who goes around making amends and helping people; this is what Ultra Space spit up after crushing destruction and injecting fear.

It makes him wonder what Lusamine ever saw in him. Nothing, probably. Just another minion to squish under her thumb. She used him and Team Skull like she used the Aether Foundation—like she used her own children. If he hadn't been any use to her, she never would have enlisted his help, and Team Skull never would have been dragged into this mess. And that would have been better for everyone, he supposes. Everyone wouldn't have had to worry. Plumeria wouldn't have had to worry. They could have kept along doing business as usual instead of running errands for Lusamine behind Aether's back.

It's just pitiful how much that woman's opinion meant to him.

"Hey. G. You still alive in there?"

"Yeah." He snaps his attention to back to Plumeria. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just was… thinking. That's all."

"Thinking? Really? Looked a lot like spacing out to me."

"Yeah. Maybe." Guzma shrugs. "Maybe both."

She clicks her tongue, letting go of his wrists and regarding him with a solemn stare. "Tough choice, huh?"

"No. No, you're right. Those brats gave me a chance. Risked a lot. They coulda just left me there if they wanted, but they didn't. That coulda left her there, too, but they didn't." He sucks in a deep breath, flexing his hands to convince himself not to pull through his hair again. "I don't know how much good I can make of something like this, but I ain't gonna squander it."

"And that's why you aren't what you saw." In the mirror, cascades of her pink fall behind her and the white mark of a skull stares at him from the curve of her back. She moves, turning on her heel to face the glass, and the pressure of her hand against his shoulder blades coaxes him one step forward. " _This_ is you," she says, nodding at his reflection. "This has always been you. Sometimes you get angry, yeah, sometimes you get upset, sometimes you fail at things just like the rest of us, but this is still you. This is Guzma. This is the guy we care about. Always has been."

"That means you, too, right?" It doesn't feel like he's looking at himself. His posture is too straight. Has he always had that ridiculous half smile on his face when he's with her?

"Hey, I said 'we,' didn't I?" Plumeria snickers at the mirror. "Of course it does."

A tightness knots in the thick of his throat as he continues to watch their reflections. He's a wreck, a tall and exhausted wreck, and her swimming in her massive nightshirt with her neon hair and golden eyes and a slight smile shaping her lush lips, she's never looked more perfect. He's always noticed, of course, always—he'd have to be stupid _and_ blind if he didn't—but from how long she's known him, wouldn't she be biased? Wouldn't her opinion of him be swayed by their friendship? Surely she only says things like this because she's obligated? He's the boss of Team Skull, after all. Everyone always tells him what he wants to hear because he's never heard it from anyone else.

Tentatively, he reaches for her hand. When he feels the warmth of her palm, he gives her a slight nudge. Her reflection mirrors her smile; she laces his fingers with his, the comforting heat of her stitching through his lifelines, and he squeezes tightly in reply. Guzma feels pretty dumb like this, if he's honest—mushy things like handholding or close relationships have never really been his forte—but he has to admit: it isn't an entirely unpleasant feeling. Physical contact is nice, especially after being dragged out of the nightmare of Ultra Space, and he's never been so glad to know she's still here.

"You'd better not tell the others." He scrunches his eyes shut, mortification flushing through his face. "Don't tell them about any of this. The stuff about that place, I mean. How I am about it. They don't need to know their boss is a wreck."

"Guzma. C'mon, look at me." When he opens his eyes again, she's staring at up him, brow knit and countenance etched with concern. "After all we've been through, after all this with Aether and its president and those kids, do you really think I'd do something like that?"

"No," he says. "No, I guess not. Not really. But I figured I'd say it anyway."

"Playing it safe, huh? That's new." Her other palm is soft and warm against his cheek. "You numbskull."

A grin happens before he can stop it. "That's your boy."

"It definitely is," she says, smiling wide, "and I'm glad he's back."

Plumeria releases his hand and draws him into a fierce, breathless hug. Guzma engulfs her without a second thought; he cinches his arms around her shoulder blades and tugs her close as she presses her temple by his sternum. With his nose against her hair, he thinks he can smell peach and mango and maybe some other kind of fruity fragrance, and it reminds him of lazy afternoons on the beach where he'd lie in the sand with Wimpod by the berry trees and watch cirrus wisps glide across the sky.

"Thanks, Plumeria," he says. "You didn't have to drag me outta bed or wash my stupid face or any of that shit, but you did anyway."

"Don't mention it," she replies, and her voice sounds very pleased from somewhere down beside the thrum of his heart. "Like I said, it's nothing. I'm the big sister of the team, you know? I look after everybody. It's part of the job description. Putting on band-aids, fixing hair dyes, and scrubbing faces is what I do."

"I don't remember none of that being listed," says Guzma.

"Mm, I think of them as assimilated duties," she says. "They kind of just happened after a while."

"Did hugs happen after a while, too?"

Plumeria stiffens in his arms. "Well… yeah. I guess so, huh?"

"Starting to look like it." He hides his smile against her neon hair, breathing in amalgams of heady nostalgia. "Not that it's a bad thing."

"I'll be sure to add it to my list," she says.

As the embrace lingers, Guzma becomes too aware of his heartbeat. It pumps steadily beside his lungs, a constant drumming in his ears, and the faint feeling of adrenaline prickles through his inhales. He can't remember a time she's ever been this close, and it gathers heat down in his lower belly. Everything feels electric; crackles of sensation flicker through his nerves and frisson kisses where her back meets the inside of his palms. He doesn't want to let go, but he _needs_ to or else he's going to make her very, very uncomfortable, and he doesn't exactly feel like chasing away his only means of support just because he got a boner at three o'clock in the morning.

"We should probably get back to bed or something," he says, slinking out of her grasp. "I know my sleep's already screwed up from all this. Still might be able to save yours."

She catches his wrist before he can head out the door. "Guzma."

"What?" A sinking feeling settles in the pit of his stomach, but when he looks back over his shoulder, her bemused expression disarms him instantly.

"I meant what I said, you know. About you." Her voice is firm, and yet in a somewhat different tone than her usual persuasive affair. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, and her jaws work like she's trying to decide on what should be said next. "Ugh. C'mon, G. Don't be a bonehead about this. Don't make me say it. I don't wanna say it again."

Guzma blinks. It takes him a moment to churn through their previous conversation, but the realization is blunt and makes him feel like someone sucker punched him in the stomach. " _Oh_."

"Yeah. That." She lets his wrist go. Her face has fallen victim to a robust pink, far brighter than any palette of blush she owns, and it's far too cute. "You know what I said. Okay? And I meant it. So don't… you know. Get dumb about it or anything."

A sudden fist of nervousness writhes down below his lungs. He feels rather winded, like he'd just sprinted a good long mile down the shoreline without the aching calves and the sharp stitch in his side, and he finds that he must consciously force his breathing because whatever controls it appears to have temporarily gone offline. His thoughts have devolved into a frantic mess: perhaps he'd misheard or had somehow misunderstood her meaning? She cares about him, of course—he's Team Skull's boss; he's _her_ boss—but she _cares_ about him? That's code for something else, isn't it? She doesn't care about him, she _cares_ about him, like this is grade school and the nature of someone's relationship hinges entirely on verbiage and whether or not a second 'like' is tacked onto the first because no one is brave enough for 'crush' or 'love' and the mental constructs of 'I want to be around you all the time because you make me feel like I'm actually worth something' and 'I really am a massive numbskull _fuck_ I don't know why I'm like this' don't really exist yet, and it's absolutely unbelievable—and on top of it all, he has no idea how to respond.

Drawing in a long, uneven breath, he fixes his focus on Plumeria. She's averted her eyes toward the crowded space surrounding the sink, glancing among the bottled dyes and scattered makeup products and discarded brushes. Arms folded and with her hip against the counter, her body is half turned as if to discourage further conversation, but the glances she gives him seem to say otherwise. She's expecting a response from him, he knows; he needs to do more than just stand there and stare; he needs to say something, _anything_ , but all that comes to mind are smartass remarks and terrible puns, neither of which are particularly useful or heartfelt.

Well. If he really must choose, he supposes the latter is probably preferred.

"Yo. Plumes."

Absently toying with one of the eyeliner pencils, she appraises him with a cautious stare. "What."

"Look, you don't want a big deal over it. I get that. I respect it. I won't do anything you don't want." He leans against the threshold to the washroom, thumb hooked on the waistband of his sweats. "But I just wanna say one thing. All right? Just one. Promise. Then I'll shut it."

"Just one?" Her expression softens, but it still retains a degree of suspicion. "All right. Sure, I guess. Whatever. Just say it and get it over with."

"Ask me what it is."

"You want me to ask?" Plumeria narrows her eyes. "Really?"

"C'mon," he says. "Humor me. Ask."

She sighs in defeat. "Okay, okay, all right. Fine. What is it?"

"Ask like you mean it."

"What, you don't think I meant it?"

"You said the words, but your heart's not in it." He thumps his fist over his chest and winks. "I can tell."

Plumeria pauses a moment to rub her temples. The fuchsia polish of her fingers has a liquid luster under the harsh lights arcing over the mirror, and it catches his attention as he leans his shoulder against the doorjamb. She then combs one hand back through her hair, guiding stark yellow streaks and neon pink waves behind her shoulder. Her teeth worry at her lower lip as she tugs down her nightshirt, revealing a bright tan line on her shoulder from the garment's too-wide neck, and it skips a twinge of excitement down between his shoulder blades.

"Well, you know what I said already," she murmurs. "What were you gonna say?"

"You ready for this?" Guzma has an absolutely terrible poker face and he can't stop himself from snickering. " _Ditto_."

The begrudging noise she makes is _so_ worth it. Exasperated, Plumeria drags her hands down her face and sighs into her palms. "I _told_ you not to be dumb about it! Ugh. Honestly, I don't know what I expected. I should've seen this coming from a mile away. I walked right into it, didn't I?"

He smirks from the doorway. "Maybe."

"It… wasn't bad, though. Not really. I mean, it could've been worse." Plumeria eyes him from the counter. Her lips are curved in a lighthearted smile, and another flush colors her cheeks. " _Ditto_. I can't believe you said that. I don't know what I'm gonna do with you."

Cracking his knuckles, Guzma pushes himself away from the doorway, his feet sliding against the surface of the cold tile, and he plants himself squarely in front of her. His reflection towers over hers in the mirror; it bears a self-satisfied grin leagues more confident than he truly feels, and despite sleepless smudges and faint stubble and the lingering mask of nightmares, it somehow manages to look less terrible than before. The mess of wild hair and assorted piercings help, he supposes. At least his body's fit enough to compensate for how damn tired he looks. He's beyond grateful for that.

"Hey. I got an idea." Guzma stoops downward, arms folded. His heart pounds behind his breastbone, a percussive crescendo he can feel in his neck, and if his mind weren't still sputtering in bewilderment, he might be more prepared for the lusty burn in her eyes. "Mind if I make this easy on you?"

"Maybe." To his surprise, Plumeria settles her hands below his ribs. Waves of rippling chills spread beneath her touch. Rising on her tiptoes, she looks up at him with an amused smirk and arches her eyebrows with expectance. "I'd just find a box to stand on, anyway. Or if you're feeling lucky, you could always try the floor." The warmth of her hands slides upward, up his sides, his arms, his shoulders, his neck, and folds in to frame his jaws. "See where that gets you, you know?"

"I can think of way better places than the floor," he breathes.

She's so close. "Can you?"

"God, you have no idea."

Impulse takes over, and Guzma kisses her in a rush. Her mouth is hot, soft, and wanting against his, and it makes him incredibly weak. Neon lipsticks color his more intimate thoughts, and a part of him has always wondered how the marks might look along his neck or trailing down his belly, his hips, his thighs. He gives her bottom lip a soft bite at the thought, just enough to get her attention, and Plumeria responds in kind with a restrained groan before redoubling her efforts: her tongue gives a teasing touch as her fingers glide further up his jaws, sifting through his sideburns to tangle into his hair and through the dark fuzz of his undercut. Electricity seems to hum under his skin when she presses up against him, and he'd be lying if he said her breasts flush against his chest didn't turn him on, although the pressure of her thigh nudging at the aching stiffness between his legs might have something to do with it.

He offers a low moan of praise against her mouth, something that probably would have been her name had it not been caught in his throat, and he clasps his hands down her sides to bring her closer. The loose nightshirt draped over her body rumples under the heel of his palm as he follows the delicate bend of her back, and it's a special brand of torture knowing what it conceals. Her outfits always show a lean stomach and criss-crossed tan lines across her back and below her ribs, and on the days she cares to wear shorts, the strong muscle that shapes her thighs is always an added bonus. He wants nothing more than to wrench it over top of her, to clear away the clutter and set her up on the counter and kiss her senseless; he wants to bite at her shoulders and leave faint marks on her neck and by her breasts and down her thighs; he wants to tease as much exposed skin as he can and feel her legs squeeze around his hips as she whispers for more; fuck, he wants to do so much, too much, but he can't, not yet, and so he reins in the desire and settles for groping her ass instead.

To his pleasure, a soft noise sounds from her throat as he lifts her against him. Whether it's from his tongue or his hands or the now painfully obvious erection straining through his sweats, he has no idea, but it sounds so fucking _hot_ , it really does, and he wants her to make more just like it. He draws back, sucking in a shallow inhale, and then moves down to her chin, her jaw, the tantalizing line of her neck; he presses warm kisses in a slow path to her collarbone, each followed by tender bites and the wet flat of his tongue as he proceeds to the next. Plumeria sighs and threads one hand through his hair, and with the soft movements of her fingertips massaging his scalp, he can't help but marvel at how good it feels. Her other hand glides down his pectorals and across his belly; the skimming of her nails along grooved muscle and the coarse trail of hair that curls below his navel drops pleasurable shivers down the braid of his backbone. The carnal part of him urges him to utilize the counter again—grinding against her, leaving red marks on her neck, feeling how wet she is—and it's then that he clamps his hands down upon her hips and pulls back.

"Fuck." Locking a sharp breath in his lungs, he shakes his head and straightens his back. "All right. All right. Gotta stop for a minute."

"You okay?" Plumeria affords him a questioning look, but it appears concupiscent instead with rosy cheeks and a parted mouth.

"Yeah. Yeah, I am. Fuck. More than okay, actually. I just—" Guzma lets go to run a hand through his hair and releases a full, heavy exhale. "I've got a feeling I'm not going back to sleep for a while."

"I don't think I am, either," she says. "Being shaken awake by one of the guys yapping about you dying isn't exactly the most considerate wakeup call."

"Well, I think mine was a little better than that. No, scratch that. Way better. Best one I've had in a while." Guzma turns his gaze back to the mirror. His cheeks are flushed a healthy red. Surprisingly, despite his disheveled appearance, it really doesn't look too bad. It must be the hair. He really should bleach it again. "Wouldn't mind an even better one later."

"What am I, your alarm clock?"

"I won't say no to that." His reflection sports a charming grin.

Plumeria leers up at him. "Well, this alarm clock wakes up early, just so you know."

"Just how early are we talking here?"

"Early. Like, eight o'clock early. Maybe seven. I have to get my morning run in."

"Are you serious?" Guzma rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms and fights back the start of a yawn. "I can't believe you'd want to be out of bed that early. Why bother? Is there even anything to do at seven in the morning?"

"More than you know about, apparently," she says.

"Yeah, okay, whatever. I think you're lying, but whatever."

"Maybe you'd like to find out."

He rubs at his face, desperately trying to ignore how painfully hard he is. "Does that mean what I think it means?"

"That depends," she says. "What exactly do you think it means?"

"Sex. Or something like it." Guzma glances at her, a hand over his mouth. "Or maybe having a nightmare pal for a little while. I'd be happy with either."

Plumeria smiles. It isn't like before when she'd been scrubbing eyeshadow off his face; this time, it's warm, pleased, and with a hint of mischief in its curvature. "Well, how about this. Let's try nightmare pal for a little while. See how it goes. And maybe we'll move up the ladder."

"Sounds fine to me." Guzma pads over to the counter, pressing his palms against the smooth granite surface. It's chilled to the touch, and it helps ground him. The man in the mirror looks like a stranger. He still doesn't remember that dumb half smile. "Might be good for how often I've been waking up. Not like it hasn't happened before, but… well. You know. After everything. It's like it's every night now."

The pressure of a soft hand smooths along the small of his back. "I'm sorry, G."

"Pff, not like you went and followed that crazy lady into another world or anything."

"No," she says, leaning against his side, "but I can still be sorry."

"Yeah." He snakes an arm around her. "Yeah, I guess."

"It's funny. You know, when those two were banging on my door a while ago yelling something about you dying, I don't think I ever imagined… well. This. Any of this, really." Plumeria rubs her eyes with a thumb and forefinger to chase the exhaustion away, a weary smile curving the side of her mouth. "What a night."

Guzma laughs. "Nightmares. Always a fun time. Drowzee would have a heyday."

"You ready for bed, then?" she asks, tapping a prickling line down his spine.

"Not really," he says. "I'm still wired. Hard on doesn't help. No idea if the sheets are dry, either. I don't even know where new ones are."

"Don't worry. I know where they are. It's part of my job." She winks at him and gestures after her with two fingers. The white skull printed on the back of her nightshirt grins at him as she starts off down the hallway, and the easy sway of her hips draws his eyes. "C'mon. Let's go. Nightmare pals need a test run."

Guzma's heart flutters as he twists around to follow her.

Maybe he is tired after all.


End file.
